Forks in the Road
by thelovelypuppeteer
Summary: Dead-tired and quite happy to finally head home, Miyuki is walking away from the nightclub when her life suddenly becomes a nightmare. A life that's saved by the Monster of Suzuran. Slowly, she is pulled into the world of the Crows, and its politics.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: **Forks in the Road

**Fandom: **_Crows Zero_

**Pairing(s): **Serizawa Tamao/OC

**Word count (for this part): **3,622

**A/N: **What can I say? I watched the two movies more than two months ago, and this was born. Hopefully my main character won't be a Mary-Sue who's instantly loved, so badass with her badassery, and speaks/interacts with the Crows without a drop caution. She definitely will _not_ be attending Suzuran for no apparent reason.

Some won't like this because they would prefer a slash pairing, but I will only write such a story when it's clear that the characters prefer their own sex—believe me, though, I understand why people ship Genji/Izaki.

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the _Crows Zero _movies, as well as the characters as they are portrayed therein. All recognizable characters are owned by Hiroshi Takahashi.

**Summary:** Dead-tired and quite happy to finally head home, Miyuki is walking away from the nightclub when her life suddenly becomes a nightmare. A life that's saved by the Monster of Suzuran. Slowly, she is pulled into the world of the Crows, and its politics.

* * *

With a tray of drinks balanced precariously on the palm of her hand, Miyuki burst through the doorway and wove gracefully—and quickly—past the faceless, nameless bodies around her. The first thing to hit her was the dense ambience of smoke and stale alcohol; then, came the flashing lights, the excited clapping, the familiar intro to the song Ruka had been practising oh-so-diligently the past fortnight.

And practising certainly had paid off, she noticed a few heartbeats later when she was pressed quite unceremoniously against the railing, the metal bar digging into her stomach. Every eye was directed toward the lithe singer clad in a t-shirt and jeans, and not the sweaty waitress who had to wrestle her way through the nightclub. Just another day for Daito Miyuki.

After placing the drinks on the appropriate table, Miyuki made her way back to the bar, only raising her head and permitting herself to sigh once she had placed her tray aside, immediately forgotten. Ushiyama looked up, then arched an eyebrow as he continued to wipe a glass, the movements purely mechanical for her weary eyes.

"Long day, Miyuki-chan?" he asked, raising his voice slightly so that he could be heard over the _noise _(there was no other way to describe it), and still he continued to clean the glass.

"Mmm," she pouted as she rubbed at her eyes, barely swallowing a yawn before abruptly deciding to air her opinion, "I'll be fine." With an almighty sigh, Miyuki raised her arms and listened as the final cadences of the song made the nightclub vibrate.

Ushiyama sighed. "Am I such a bad boss that you'd lie to me?" Turning slightly, he set the glass on the counter and grabbed another. "I'm hurt, Miyuki-chan—go home. If you wish."

_There was nothing waiting for her in that cold shoebox. _Miyuki did not deign to answer. When a muffled, slightly slurred voice pierced the fog clouding her senses, she snatched her tray and promptly scurried off. _Perhaps too quickly_, Miyuki decided when she found herself face to face with Yu, Kyoko, and a number of laughing men. _Fantastic._

After graduating from high school, then fleeing from the only 'familiarity' she had known her whole like (a pitiful town in a pitiful region) a few months later, Daito Miyuki had lived the life of a drifter before settling down in the infamous home of the School of the Delinquents. Only because she had had no choice in the matter.

But that didn't erase the fact that she wasn't supposed to flee her home—_that _shouldn't have happened. Daito Miyuki wasn't supposed to know who Kyoko and Yu were (she only knew them because they followed Ruka around, their loyalty and friendship making her burn with jealousy) because she wasn't supposed to even set a foot in their godforsaken city.

"Ah, Daito-san!" But Kyoko always greeted her, and always had a sweet, glossy smile ready for any and everyone. Miyuki gave her the largest grin she could muster, yet somehow it didn't feel forced. "Can we—"

After memorising the order, batting aside a pair of grabby hands, and returning with a tray of drinks, Miyuki found herself being swallowed by her work and responsibilities—which included cleaning up after one had thrown up. Clean the glasses, clean the floor, get drinks for the lucky few stationed at a table, smile, laugh, _repeat_.

Repeat, until the doors had been closed for the night (or morning?), the chairs had been placed aside, and every nook and cranny had been cleaned. Only then could Miyuki sigh and lean against the counter, waving a paper fan at her face as she pouted tiredly at the ceiling.

"Home, Miyuki-chan."

"Hai, hai," she sighed and stood upright, her back popping here and there as she stretched, giving her trusty tray one last nudge before taking off. The door swung shut behind her, making a racket that sent shivers down her spine.

For a long suspended moment Miyuki stood silently in the street, her breath forming a cloud of mist before her nose. Then, shuddering once again, she managed to move: down the street, past shops, her eardrums still ringing and still hearing a song that had long ceased, dead. The echo of a memory.

And accompanied with the memory of a life nearly forgotten, Miyuki walked the familiar route back to her apartment in a listless manner, deaf and dumb to everything around her. Which was the most stupid thing a girl should do when walking alone in the early hours of the morning, only the stars and the moon and the flickering streetlights watching over her.

_Stupid_.

So as she kept her head ducked down, brown eyes focused on her tattered sneakers, swinging her arms as though she felt _giddy _about something, it took her moments to realise that someone was actually breathing down her neck. As though the man (creeper, really) was attempting to memorise her scent.

Spinning on her heel, nearly slipping and sliding as the smooth surface of her shoes met with a wet patch of tarmac, Miyuki swung around to face her unwanted companion. "Excuse me?" she whispered breathlessly, her heart in her throat, her lips suddenly too dry. Her eyes wide, taking in every detail with a startling diligence: the man's thick brows, a gold chain hugging his neck, a beer belly closing the distance between them.

It took a few seconds for stupidity to reap terrifying consequences, three painful heartbeats to realise that the man—the cockiness, the way he held himself—was either a Crow (though a bit too old for that) or a Yakuza lackey. Or worse.

"I …" and now her heart was pounding right in her mouth. Miyuki swallowed. "Excuse me. My friends are waiting for …" A lie, but what the man didn't know could help her.

Or not.

With a move that startled her, nearly sent her onto her rear, the man grabbed her wrist and smiled in a manner that was _supposed _to calm another. "Wait, wait!" he declared as he flashed his crooked teeth at her, "They can wait, can't they?" Then he threw an arm around her shoulders, pulling her close.

"Thank you—" at least she couldn't accuse Mother Dearest of not instilling manners into her daughter (though stomping her obliviousness from her system was another story, one that tickled the forefront of her mind as she realised that she had taken Ushiyama's fan with her, the paper caught between girl and man), "—but perhaps another—"

And now the smile swiftly turned sour. "Ain't a request, sweetheart," the warning was a growl—and so she struggled against the man's grasp, twisting and turning to the point that the paper fan flew from her fingers, landing somewhere in her peripheral vision.

The half-acknowledged sight seemed to whisper that she would be on her back if she wouldn't do a thing about it. Therefore Miyuki aimed a kick to the groin of the potbellied man, only to gasp out in pain and break her fall with her forearms when a fist connected with her cheek.

Next, she expected another blow, but one directed to her abdomen. Expected to hear the sound of a belt being unbuckled, expected the man to ramble on and on about this and that, but what she didn't expect was to hear a loud cry of a wounded animal. With her head upraised, Miyuki rolled onto her side and scrambled away, huffing and puffing, then blinking owlishly when realisation finally dawned upon her.

_Whoom, whoom_, the streetlight flickered.

The boy—or man, the figure was quite short—wore the signature black blazer of a Crow. Hair slicked back, eyebrows raised as though imploring the other man to do something, _anything_, and wearing a ridiculous floral shirt; some would say that the newcomer wasn't that imposing. But Miyuki wasn't going to assume a thing.

She hadn't been around for long before hearing that Suzuran cronies fell as soon as they were touched by class leaders, that they spent their days kicking each other, glaring and growling at nothing in particular, and were always smoking like chimneys. She wasn't going to stay to find out whether this one was a crony or—

Oh. Her panic abated, her muscles relaxed, almost liquefying as she wilted across the street. She watched the unfolding scene with wide eyes.

With a demented laugh, eyes wide and gleaming with a maniacal light, the Crow dodged her attacker's sudden swing and landed a sickeningly loud punch into the man's stomach. The taller of the two dropped down with a thud, unconscious.

_Oh_. Miyuki struggled to compose herself, her relief making her lightheaded and woozy. "I …" _really, what else could she say? _Miyuki cleared her throat, "I should—"

"A girl shouldn't be out so late," came the unexpected response, "a girl should know better." The streetlight flickered again. _Whoom, whoom_.

"A boy," Miyuki retorted under her breath as she pulled herself up and stood on weak legs, "shouldn't be so strong. It's frightening …" Everything else that she wanted to say disappeared like a whisper on the wind when the Crow stepped closer, now being bathed in stronger, sharper light.

It was Serizawa Tamao.

Just as she had suspected.

Miyuki had seen the quirky daredevil here and there, frequently being followed by a murder of lower-ranked Crows, all of them cocksure and walking with a confidence that was only garnered after everyone acknowledged that you were the best (or worst) or were following the best (or worst) of Suzuran.

And Serizawa just happened to stay in the same rundown apartment complex as her. When one lived in the same vicinity as the King of the Beasts, it wouldn't take long (with her, one hour after moving in) to hear about that certain Crow. Mothers and fathers warned her to stay away from Serizawa, girls tittered and blushed (prompting Miyuki to narrow her eyes), and boys either liked (hero-worshipped, in some cases) or _hated _him.

"Shouldn't you be running home," Serizawa's question roused her from her trance, causing her to jump and to clear her throat. He looked away from their prone companion to glance in her direction, "little girl?"

As her muscles solidified and tingles began coursing through her body, Miyuki slowly nodded her head, then turned around. Her legs abruptly hardened into stone. Casting a glance over her shoulder, she took in the sight of Serizawa staring up at the sky, his fists tucked into his pockets, brows drawn together as if he were in pain.

(Miyuki remembered how she had seen Serizawa staring up at his apartment with a look that she had considered all too familiar; a look that had graced her own face, that had caused her shoulders to droop, because it had been just too unbearable to enter her home—her one and only 'familiarity'. _It was better to stay away, to watch family from a safe distance_).

Behind Serizawa, the potbellied man groaned, then began to collect himself. Miyuki shifted her weight from one leg to the other before darting forward and picking up the paper fan.

"Thank you," she called out as she watched the man struggling to his feet. Serizawa blinked, then inhaled loudly before turning around, facing the other man with a look of utter boredom, "Serizawa-san."

Miyuki didn't stay to see how the delinquent took down the thug without bothering to remove his hands from his pockets.

* * *

Mornings always began the same: a too-short slumber interrupted by the suspicious banging next door (she was certain that it was a headboard thumping against the wall, considering how friendly a certain wife was with the mailman), a pitiful breakfast consumed as though it was a meal fit for a queen, and a hop in and out of the shower before changing for work at the local supermarket.

And the supermarket?

Well, on normal days she would be packing the shelves in a daze, losing herself in the rhythmic motion of bending and lifting until thinking was no longer a necessity. Despite being poor and lonely, Miyuki prided herself on her ability to just survive: not falling into an abyss of prostitution and utter oblivion, of still having a goal in mind.

(The goal had no name and still awaited a heartbeat, but it had taken residence in her mind, guarded by a still tongue and tired limbs that worked day and night until what-she-wanted had been fully realised. _It_ just needed time).

This morning, however, despite the few hours she had slept, Miyuki found her head cleared of all cobwebs. She repeatedly shook her head and asked herself, "What were you thinking? Well, it's obvious that you weren't thinking, because _Serizawa!_ How could you know that he wouldn't have hurt you?"

With an almighty groan, Miyuki shut her eyes and bowed her head, images of the previous night zooming into the forefront of her mind. Unbidden, wholly unwelcome. A shudder trembled down her limbs, settling into the soles of her feet, and she had the sudden _urge _to run.

Inhaling sharply, quickly, Miyuki opened her eyes and shook her head once again. She focused her attention on the box she had opened, her fingers frozen on the cardboard flaps, her back suddenly protesting at her uncomfortable position. Finally, she straightened up.

A song flitted through the store, soft and barely comprehensible, perhaps the latest chart-topper. Behind Miyuki, the bell clanged, announcing the first customer of the day. A sigh leapt from her parted, dry lips. _The start of yet another long day. _Nothing new.

But another shudder rippled through her, upsetting the fragile calm she had just collected. Miyuki wiped a hand across her trembling lips, then turned on her heel and bowed in welcome to an elderly lady. "Welcome, obaa-san," she greeted the woman pleasantly, curving her lips into a practiced smile. _Oh, how easy it was to fool those who didn't _look_. _"Please let me know if you'd need my help."

There was a swift response, but as soon as it was uttered, it was forgotten, trivial. In one ear, out the other. Distracted (_tired_), Miyuki returned to her work, her shoulders drooping with unvoiced concerns, unvoiced _everything_. She emptied the box, setting its contents on that shelf, on this display, until she had to fetch another container, repeating the job.

A cough awakened her from her methodical movements, and with a quickly muttered apology, Miyuki scurried to the till and rang up the customer's purchases—always a loaf of bread, a tray of eggs, a bottle of milk, a block of cheese, and a packet of tomatoes. Yet the woman's name remained a mystery.

Perhaps it had been voiced weeks before, when they had first met, but when one didn't listen, didn't yearn for true human contact, why should a simply name be remembered? Then, in a whisper that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise, came the words: _but you remember Kyoko, Yu, Ruka, and Ushiyama._

(_Serizawa Tamao_).

"Thank you, Daito-chan," the woman whispered, as if she were sharing a secret. Miyuki watched her leave, slowly shuffling forward until she was faced with the door, taking her time to depart.

The bell clanged again.

Idly, Miyuki wondered if she should have helped the woman leave, but the thought was already gone, forgotten, when her gum-chewing boss stuck his head out of the office door. Rapping her nails across the counter for a beat, she wondered off as if she had all the time in the world, but then returned to her abandoned task.

Another box, another shelf, another customer until the boss strode from his office, scratching at his belly as he waved her off, ordering her to have her lunch. _He _knew that she had no lunch with her, and _she _knew that he was slinking off for a bottle of sake despite what the doctor had said, but neither said a word.

A worn crate, her usual seat in the back alley, was still there to welcome her with a soft groan when she sat down on it, throwing her legs out before her. Miyuki stretched, raising her arms then rolling her head, before sitting still. Watching, the graffiti across the formerly white wall, the cat eying her from behind a dirty window.

A crick in her neck made her lean over, her hair nearly brushing across the street, so she first saw a pair of feet and long legs before noticing the rest of the body heading straight to her. _Straight to her? _Miyuki sat up hastily.

"Did you hear? _Did you hear?_" her boss's daughter yelped as she slid to a stop, quickly tugging at her school uniform, "oh, it's the best news I've heard in a while—" gossip was always the best news for the girl, "—certainly the best."

Miyuki sighed. "One day you'll get tired of all your gossiping. No appeal, no satisfaction," she informed the suddenly silent schoolgirl, then added sarcastically, "That will be a 'sad' day indeed."

A click of her tongue. "I saw this happening. Well," the girl paused, fidgeting with her pigtails, "not everything, but I know what I saw."

Silence reigned supreme for several seconds. Miyuki watched as the girl bounced on her feet, swung her arms, licked her lips, and looked around as though hunting for a different pair of ears. "All right," Miyuki sighed and closed her eyes for a moment, _the annoying gossip must have spread the news throughout her high school, and now needed some poor, oblivious soul in order to satisfy her addiction_, "tell me."

With a loud squeal, the schoolgirl took a seat beside Miyuki and bowed her head, clearing her throat as though she was about to deliver a well-rehearsed speech. "Here it is," she whispered ominously, her eyes flicking left to right before focusing on Miyuki. "So this morning, as I was heading to school—well, you know how I like to walk past Suzuran—"

Head bowed, Miyuki rubbed tiny circles into her temples, eyes slowly closing when she noticed the first signs of an oncoming headache. Sighing, she sat upright and massaged one shoulder, then the other. It was then, when she smacked her lips and finally acknowledged what her companion was saying, that she heard the following words: "—took in Serizawa Tamao."

Miyuki froze. "What did you say?"

"Honestly Daito-san," the girl rolled her eyes, "you're the most oblivious being I've ever met!" But she clicked her tongue, bouncing excitedly on the crate as though she had just been rewarded with new information. "Never mind! Keiji-san took in Serizawa Tamao because of some motorbike, but that's not what's important."

A beat. "It isn't?"

The girl shook her head quite hastily. "_No_. You see," she looked ready to grab Miyuki's shoulders, to shake her, "a few Yakuza members came to Suzuran to find Serizawa. Apparently he sent one of their boys to the hospital … and apparently it was because of a girl."

The pause between sentences hung suspended for several long, nerve-wrecking seconds; the shock running through her veins made time slow down to a snail's pace. Miyuki inhaled, then the world righted itself. Her own breathing was loud in her ears, in and out, in and out. For once, she listened diligently.

"I hope that history won't repeat itself. A while ago," the boss's daughter continued, wholly unaware of everything around her, "some gang suspected this girl of being Serizawa's girlfriend. She ended up in the hospital—it's dangerous being with a Monster with so many enemies."

"So the girl was his … ?"

"No. Not his girlfriend."

"Is she okay?" Miyuki didn't dare to speak of the horrors the poor girl must have experienced, but her concern, obvious in the shallowness of her breathing, the wideness of her eyes, couldn't be ignored and just had to be voiced.

"Oh yeah," the airy and offhanded response was enough to calm Miyuki's nerves, "but she no longer lives here."

With a silent sigh, Miyuki tugged on her lips and watched as the cat-behind-the-window licked at its paw. She hummed an unintelligible sound, then look back at her companions with the suddenness of someone who had just realised something of consequence.

"This happened," Miyuki spoke slowly, "when you were supposed to be in school, right." A cheeky smile crept unbidden across her lips. "I heard your father shouting into the phone the other day … you're always late for school."

A blush bloomed across the girl's cheeks as she hastily rose to her feet. "I should get going," she loftily responded as she dusted off her pristine skirt, "I'll see you … when I see you." Then, pivoting on her heel, she strode away.

Her smile faded. Miyuki swept her eyes back to the cat; it was staring right back at her, pink tongue still lapping at its coat. "Wait!" she barked, then sprung to her feet with an urgency she couldn't comprehend, "What's your name?"

The girl froze. "Should I add 'forgetful' to your attributes, Daito-san?" she looked at Miyuki over her shoulder, and the steeliness of her words was softened by the minute smile curving her lips. "Sanada Aoi."

Miyuki blinked, breathing slowly through her nose, then bowed at her acquaintance. Only when the soft plod of Sanada's footfalls faded away, did she straighten her spine and nod at nothing in particular. _Sanada Aoi_, she thought with dread, _I shouldn't have asked that question._

Head raised to the sky, Miyuki gnawed on her lower lip, then closed her tingling eyes.

_Too late to regret that._

* * *

Obaa-san: grandmother or old woman.

Keiji-san: detective. Aoi was referring to the 'Gramps', Kuroiwa Yoshinobu.

* * *

**Edit: **the document converter on ff dot net did something weird to this chapter: it removed the space between two words, here and there, and made certain words italic when it shouldn't be that. If there are more errors, I'll correct them at a later stage.

Seeing that there aren't that many Crows stories, or a large demand for them: if you're interested in this story, want to see it updated, please leave me comment/message otherwise I don't see the point of writing for a nonexistent audience.


	2. Chapter 2

**Word count (for this part): **4,342

**A/N: **Eh, I'm not so sure about this chapter (I'm never completely happy with my stories), but it's here and finally done. (Chapter two is mostly Miyuki being a Debbie Downer). Enjoy!

**Disclaimer:** This story is based on the _Crows Zero _movies, as well as the characters as they are portrayed therein. All recognizable characters are owned by Hiroshi Takahashi.

* * *

Everything—sound, sight, smell—was back to normal—_thuds _of bass, _flashing _of lights, miasma of stale alcohol pervading the air—by the time Miyuki had lost herself in the routine of the nightclub. One order, yes, coming up! Another table to clean, another shattered glass to throw away, another unruly client to be thrown out.

It was comforting. And that wasn't a lie.

With her head upraised, her usual armour polished and prepared for every blow that would be directed to her self-esteem, Miyuki felt herself slip into the cold and numb existence that was her new life. Her new—or becoming old?—routine. _No_, she quickly berated herself and shook her head, _don't think_. _Just move._

And she did.

Nod, smile, order. Clean, move, wait. Dodge, spin, frown. Order, table, lights. Ruka, song, clapping. Glasses, order, glasses. Tray, walk, wait. Relax, speak, sigh. Walk, drinks, smile. And over. And over, until—the silence in the empty nightclub seemed to pulse against her skin, tremble into her feet, and create a pressure behind her eyes that reminded her to sleep, _god, just sleep for hours._

"Miyuki-chan?"

"Hai?" Miyuki snapped up and spun toward a frowning Ushiyama. Her boss had a broom in one hand, and a conflicted look clouding his face. After a beat, she followed the direction of his gaze and was wholly confused when she was met by the sight of Kyoko still seated at a table.

The girl was the only client in the now-closed nightclub, a vision of neatness surrounded by crude graffiti.

"I'll—I'll get rid of her," Miyuki stammered, then snatched the broom from Ushiyama's grasp, "I'll talk …" _to her. A mistake, oh such a stupid mistake to make. _But she took a seat, crossed her legs, and pressed the broom against her side. "Kyoko-san?"

Kyoko blinked, her eyelashes fluttering. Glossy lips parted and relaxed, a breath of air hitching in her throat before fluttering to freedom, then a full-body shudder began in her legs and ceased with a sudden jerk of her head. "Yes?" was the breathless, slightly bewildered response. "Yes?"

It was like witnessing a delicate flower responding to dawn, to the first rays of light and the slowly changing hues of the sky.

"Shop's closed," Miyuki gently pointed out, still staring unashamedly at her companion, still leaning most of her weight onto the broom. With her lips curved into a playful grimace, she offered Kyoko a nonchalant shrug, which—she would soon realize—was mistaken for the act of offering to hear her every trial and tribulation.

Every thought. In great detail.

"Oh, oh," Kyoko breathed, slowly shaking her head. She pressed the tips of two fingers on the edge of their table, then followed the curve from one direction to the other. "I was hoping, you see. One date, one night. A good experience. _For once!_" With a sudden incomprehensible exclamation, she slapped the table with force, her face twisting into a disappointed sneer. "Why? Why are men such _pigs_?"

"Eh?" Miyuki hastily reared back on her seat and held the broom across her chest. Frowning, she cast a significant glance in Ushiyama's direction (the oblivious man was behind the counter, slapping together one of his favourite drinks as an obvious _job-well-done_) but quickly turned back when Kyoko released a particularly shrill sound. "It couldn't have been that bad?"

Oh, but apparently it had been. And worse. So awful, so disappointing, that Miyuki received a detailed synopsis of the evening, starting from the not-to-be couple's first dance to the drinks that had been bought, the outfit the boy had worn, and his nonexistent manners. It was only after Ushiyama had locked the club's doors behind them, and sent them on their way, that a ranting Kyoko realised that she had been following Miyuki down the street.

"Oh," Kyoko sighed, and abruptly deflated. "I'm so sorry … so sorry." She winced, then began slapping her forehead. "I'm so embarrassed … truly embarrassed."

Casting a glance behind her, then toward the path ahead of them, Miyuki considered a few carefully worded responses, but ultimately found herself tongue-tied and confused. Shuddering, she drew in a shaky breath and wetted her lips with her tongue. "Maybe …" she offered, but comforting another truly felt strange, so foreign, in that moment, "maybe you have high expectations."

But Kyoko merely shrugged. "Maybe I'm attracted to nut-jobs," then plodded forward, arms swinging, as if they hadn't stopped walking.

Miyuki echoed the girl's shrug. "That as well," she agreed, just for the sake of agreeing, and a slow smile tugged at Kyoko's lips before blooming into a full-fledged grin. Miyuki just had to look away.

"What are you doing with that broom?" The question was completely unexpected and _strange_, but that calm and almost wistful tone in Kyoko's voice reminded Miyuki of warm nights, arms wrapped securely around her shoulders, and the full moon glowing brightly above her. (_Isn't it beautiful?_ Mother Dearest had whispered against her cheek).

Eventually the true meaning of the question pieced the fog clouding her thoughts, and Miyuki stared dumbly at her companion for several heartbeats. Until said girl gestured to the ground, then repeated the question before falling silent, inhaling deeply as though the lingering scents of the day was an ambrosia.

It finally dawned upon Miyuki that she had been dragging the broom behind her, allowing the bristles to scrape across tar and cement and wrappers of any kind. She groaned at herself, exasperated, and thought: _first Ushiyama's fan, now his broom_. Her boss would eventually ask Keiji-san to arrest her.

"Thank you for listening," Kyoko eventually broke the silence and bowed her head at Miyuki as a sign of sincerity. "We should … do this again."

"Uh," she shifted the broom from one hand to the other as a familiar discomfort appeared and intensified at an alarming rate. The words _maybe not_ and _I think I have to leave again, continue my life as a drifter_ came close to being spoken, but she managed to stop herself. "What do you mean?"

"Talk," Kyoko said quite simply.

Swallowing was difficult, but when she could speak, Miyuki gestured to their right (Yu and Ruka just rounded the corner at that moment) and announced, "There's Ruka-san." Head bowed, she scurried away as quickly as she could, leaving behind the quiet of the streets, the dark of the night, and a bewildered Kyoko who would eventually notice her absence.

Scurrying became jogging, became running, and her movement only ceased once she had clambered up the stairs and reached her apartment. There, Miyuki bent over, panting, and closed her eyes to shut out a suddenly whirling world. It took a while, but when she finally straightened up and glanced around at her surroundings, she leaned against the railing with her arms up in the air, stretching.

Lights were still on here and there. The concrete courtyard down below looked eerie, like a strange graveyard. Goosebumps flecked her flesh as the wind picked up, sending her hair into a disarray, so she turned on her heel and pulled out her keys.

Miyuki had her door open, her hand on the handle, when she noticed a figure that was sitting a distance down the walkway connecting the apartments. The lights above flickered once, twice, then she knew who she was looking at and knew that she had to make a move: speak up or leave.

The Monster of Suzuran was on the floor with his back against the door of his apartment. A hand rested on his head, his fingers making slow circles across his mane. Dried blood was smeared along his brow. His eyes were closed.

The instinct to flee—the same instinct that had awoken after her home life had collapsed into many, irreparable shards—emerged out of the blue. Hastily looking away, Miyuki threw herself into her apartment and locked her door as quietly as she could; then she stood still, heart racing, blood pumping frantically to her reddening ears. Her hand slowly slid down the length of the doorframe.

_Thank you_, the words formed silently on her lips. And, as she forced her eyes shut, the image of the boy sitting outside burned into her memory. Never to be forgotten.

* * *

As a young girl, Miyuki had been frequently nervous and had fretted about _this _and _that_. Now, older and scarred by events some would deem as trivial, she discovered that certain aspects of her personality couldn't be altered, no matter how many months came and went.

It was the simple idea of Serizawa suffering because of her—of not voicing an appreciation that frequently crawled into the forefront of her mind—that plagued her every minute she worked at the supermarket. It didn't matter that it was an unusually busy day, that Sanada-san (her boss, as she was now calling him) had actually removed himself from his office long enough to snap at her. That certain Suzuran student just wouldn't leave her thoughts.

So it was only after cleaning the floors, checking her teeth, rechecking the shelves, brushing her hair with her fingers, checking out for the day, and neatening her uniform (she tutted at herself after realising that she had been straightening her appearance), that she headed out to deal with her emotions.

But she became more and more anxious the closer she came to the infamous school. Thoughts like _did the Yakuza get him_, _is he all right_, and _I should thank him again, must thank him again_ ran rampant in her head. One moment she was walking, then she was jogging like a poorly handled puppet—limbs flying everywhere, no coordination in sight—and finally, finally she was running like her life depended on it.

Runner she was not, so by the time she came close to the school, she was panting and leaning heavily against a wall. Eventually leaning-against-a-wall became sitting-on-a-bench, then that became slithering-from-seat-to-seat, or seat-to-sidewalk, until she was facing the entrance of Suzuran Boys High School.

It was rather anticlimactic. The graffiti, the gates, the bleakness that seemed to be _everywhere_ in the city, but what had she been expecting? A juvenile prison? Perhaps that was where they all were heading—prison. With that sobering thought, Miyuki rose to her feet and decided to go home.

An embarrassing squeak erupted from her lips when she swung around and nearly collided with two rather bruised boys—twins, she noted a second later when she was muttering one apology after the other. Her hair hid her face from view as she ducked her head and watched the two muttering Crows from beneath her eyelashes.

"Watcha saying?" left asked right as they swaggered away, both walking quite like ducks. Or some form of animal. "We're joining the jailbird?" He looked toward the school, then tugged at his copper-stained mask—someone had clearly punched him.

Miyuki remained frozen until the duo disappeared from sight, until a much larger crowd of Crows appeared, rowdy and puffing on cigarettes, until she caught the familiar head of hair belonging to Serizawa. She scurried away, running straight to the nightclub instead of returning to bed.

Ushiyama was nowhere to be seen at first glance, but when a hand waved from behind a counter, then a voice warned her to "leave them alone," it dawned upon Miyuki that a Crow and a strangely confident man were conferring around a table. _Suzuran politics_, she realised as she grabbed a bucket and headed to the nearest tap.

"Truth is," the one in the white jacket spoke with a flourish, "I'm a Suzuran graduate. They called me Jarhead Ken. Came close to ruling it too."

Miyuki flicked her hair out of her way with a toss of her head. Tentatively, she glanced behind her to watch as Ken reminisced about his golden years, his face gaining a dreamlike quality as he (obviously) remembered beating the crap out of other blockheads (like him). She joined Ushiyama behind the bar.

"Am I supposed to believe that?" Miyuki didn't know what made her speak up, but the words simply fell from her lips in a breathless rush. With her eyes widening to an impossible size, she hastily dipped a rag into the bucket and started to wipe the floor.

"It takes more than a good punch to consolidate a place like Suzuran. For example: it takes leadership and heroic virtues. Let's see, what else? Diplomacy. And keen perception."

Ushiyama reached over to tug on her sleeve. "Perhaps not," he whispered, winking, then returned to perusing a number of till slips and coupon cards.

The anxiety of the day abruptly slipped away, forgotten. Miyuki attempted in vain to smoother a smile, but when she noticed how Ken leapt away from the suddenly irritated Crow, she couldn't help how she snorted and smiled at the same time. "Hmm," she replied noncommittally as she looked away, wetting her rag yet again.

* * *

Miyuki happened to see Jarhead Ken a few days later; when he was holding hands with two girls who were absolutely too young for him, and later, when she was delivering a package to Aizawa-san, Ruka's mother. Even from a distance she could see how he attempted to cheer himself on, and that almost comical display had distracted her to the point of being oblivious to Ruka's presence.

_Slam._

Head snapping to the left, eyes wide, Miyuki turned back to the little store to see Ruka attacking a head of cabbage. "Konnichiwa," she hesitatingly called out, just for the sake of politeness. Licking her lips, she glanced around to see what else was available to be purchased. _Hadn't had ramen in a while_, Miyuki thought.

"Kyoko," Ruka announced after returning her greeting. She hastily wiped her hair out of her way, then sent Miyuki a fleeting look out of the corner of her eye, "she likes you." _Slam._ "She's going to ask you to hang out with her. Say yes … please."

"I'm busy," Miyuki always was, "_work_."

A nonchalant shrug, so much like her own. "Then," Ruka quickly answered, as if a swift response would somehow yield a positive result, "tell her you'll meet up with her another day." She lowered her knife. "She's a sweet girl. A little naïve but sweet."

_And why did that feel like a warning?_ Miyuki shifted her weight from foot to foot, then watched as Aizawa-san closed the paper bag she had brought from the supermarket. Miyuki sent the older woman a strained smile, then turned back to Ruka, who was suddenly standing upright and—was that a blush?

Miyuki turned.

Striding toward the shop like a man on a mission, Takiya Genji had his head bowed and his black blazer flapping behind him, his hands clenched into fists as though he was about to enter a brawl. It was that sight, of the Crow heading toward her, that prompted Miyuki to glance behind her, eyes wide with alarm.

But there wasn't some mad-eyed thug or a rival gang member standing nearby—then she remembered seeing Ruka hovering around Takiya, sending him coquettish smiles, and Miyuki's shoulders slumped in relief. When it became clear that the singer's attention had narrowed in on the Crow, quite like tunnel vision, Miyuki drew in a quick breath and fled.

It almost intrinsic: the need to be left alone, to flee upon the first signs of familiarity. And she had succeeded so far; everyone gave her space and eventually acknowledged her unvoiced request of, _please, just leave me alone_. _Let me live my life in isolation._

Miyuki halted for a moment. _But_, she glanced over her shoulder as a cabbage-carrying Takiya returned to his companions, _perhaps her luck was running out_. Ruka was staring at her, eyes narrowed; the singer was one of the most persistent girls Miyuki knew.

A wave of dread washed over her. Yet Miyuki looked away, steeling herself, and headed back to work.

* * *

Sometimes she dreamt of her old high school, sometimes of old friends. Or the old home: small with small windows, perfect exterior and immaculate interior. A mother cooking their meals, kissing them goodbye or goodnight. A father ruling the household with a firm but gentle hand, frequently urging them to always try their best. Then there were the dreams—no, nightmares of the _moment of change._

The true reality was always distorted in her dreams; shadows were longer, furniture had a strange colour, and everything else was so, so dark. Home had never been _dark_, but there she was—dream-her—and she was walking down the corridor, the shadows obtaining a life of their own as they reached out, inches from caressing her shoulder.

Dream-her would call out, asking for Oka-san or Oto-san, but her questions would always echo, return to her like a faithful dog. (Hadn't there been a dog? Didn't they have a dog? Oh, yes. She had sent it away the day she had left). But no one responded. There was never a response. Home remained silent. And that was when the dream would become a nightmare.

That was when Miyuki would awake with a start, her heart racing, her skin damp with sweat. Chest heaving, she would stare at the ceiling and wait for her dreams to manifest in her surroundings. But they never did, and she was so very thankful that.

Otherwise she would be going crazy.

* * *

Some days were light and carefree, like the soft caress of a breeze across her brow. Other days her smile didn't feel like her own; strained and stretched taut, like the stitches of a wound were pulling at the skin, trying to pull it back together. On those days she hoped that at some point life would stop pissing on her and pretending it was rain.

Those days drained her the most.

Today was such a day, and Miyuki found herself facing the newest bartender Ushiyama had hired. Seated at the bar, the pulse of the music hammering against her temples, she watched as the nameless woman made drink after drink, the bartender reminding her of Ushiyama who was always smiling, always welcoming. It made her eyes tear.

Sighing, Miyuki cradled her head in her hands. She wasn't supposed to be there. It was her night-off, and her world was so very lonely, and _wasn't that a pretty drink? _She watched the glass, the sides coated with condensation. It was alcohol, and she was so very pathetic to be there on her night-off, and she needed _something_.

So she ordered a drink.

And another.

Another.

Until a familiar voice spoke from her left, stopping her in her quest to find _something_. Miyuki slapped a hand against her forehead, then slowly sat upright. Oh, she knew that person. _Wait, who? No, wait, long hair, glossy lips, jeans-and-t-shirt combination_. Aizawa Ruka.

And Ruka was talking to her, but only her lips were moving, pressing together then parting. Slowly, the singer's speech became louder and louder until, with a _pop_—"I can't believe … wait," Ruka hesitated, eyes narrowed and arms akimbo, "Miyuki, how long have you been here? Isn't it your night-off?"

Miyuki shrugged because talking was _way_ too difficult at that moment. So she settled with a jovial wave of the hand. Ruka had to grab her arm to prevent her from flopping over onto the floor. And Miyuki knew how dirty that floor could be. "Bad floor," she muttered as she found herself back in her seat, "huh?"

"How many of those have you drunk?" Ruka was obviously repeating herself. _Poor Ruka_. The girl's hair looked glossy and fascinating under the winking lights; Miyuki wondered if it would be weird to reach out and touch—"_Miyuki_, concentrate on me. How long have you been drinking?"

"Oto-san was always drinking," Miyuki blurted, her head rolling back and forth, or maybe it was the world that was out of alignment. "Especially right before _everything_ changed." She rubbed a hand across her brow as an overwhelming surge of grief rushed through her veins. "Why didn't I notice?"

"Miyuki?" There was a scrape of wood over wood as the singer pulled up a stool and sat down. Ruka leaned in, her long hair nearly swiping Miyuki in her face. "I think you should stop drinking—"

"Isn't this drink amazing?" she squealed while holding up her half-empty (or was it half-_full_, she wasn't certain at that moment) glass to her lips. The liquid splashed across her cheek. "Boss Ushi-Ushi-_yimi_ makes the best drinks, though. Right, Ruka-_chan_?"

But the object of her fascination suddenly vanished. Miyuki had to blink a few times, and only then did it become clear that Ruka had taken the glass, placing it on the counter for her. "You shouldn't poison yourself," the singer sighed.

"No," Miyuki agreed as she draped her arms across the counter. "Don't poison yourself, Ruka. Poison is." She closed her eyes, rubbing the tip of her nose across her wrist. "Bad."

"Hey, look at me. Hey."

"Huh?" Why was it so difficult to look up? Why was her head so heavy? Why did she even have a head? "What is it? What—what? What did I eat?" Well, Miyuki had to think very hard, and thinking was really difficult at that moment. (Everything was). Why was she even thinking? Couldn't she just sleep? When was the last time that she had had a full eight hours of sleep? Miyuki truly wanted those eight hours. Like now. And she was in the nightclub. Wasn't she? "I'm in the nightclub!"

"Yes, you are, but look—" a plate of chicken wings appeared before Miyuki's arms, brown and crispy and juicy, "chicken wings. You love them!"

Miyuki found herself sitting up, suddenly awake and excited and brimming with energy, because _chicken wings! _"I do!" She did love them. And she loved Ruka. "I do," she whispered while snatching a wing from the plate and tearing it apart.

After the wallowing, then the drinking, came the silent state of reflection, the cherry on top of the shitty day. The third stage faithfully appeared as Miyuki finished her last chicken wing, then cleaned the plate with exaggerated care and concentration.

"There," she sighed, pushing the plate aside as she pressed her brow onto the sticky surface of the bar. Behind her, Ruka sang, most probably writhing across the stage as the backup dancers circled her. The music swelled and the lyrics were lost under the roar of cheering and clapping, but Miyuki shut her eyes and didn't—_didn't_—care.

Ordinary thoughts, dark thoughts, twisted and turned in the forefront of her mind, becoming so entangled that one thought abruptly continued into another. Slowly, she raised her arms, wrapping them around her waist, as if she were about to split at the seams.

Perhaps she _was_; perhaps she was thinking too much. Then, like frozen water rushing through her veins, her mind cleared and blood suddenly pumped with haste toward her head, her skin flaring with heat. Miyuki threw her hands onto the bar and pushed herself up, heading to the exit.

Dogs barked, sirens wailed in the distance, and she tipped her head back, staring up at the pinpricks of twinkling jewels scattered across the darkened sky. _Pinpricks of twinkling jewels, Miyuki? _she thought, brushing a hand across her messy ponytail, then down her face. _What are you? Sixteen again?_

Miyuki walked on.

The apartment complex was highlighted, here and there, with an assortment of whites, numerous lights like a pale Christmas tree: the window on the first floor, displaying the scene of a couple watching television; the open door on the third, where a man stood in the doorway, raising a beer bottle to his lips; and dotted along the walkways, making the path easier to see.

It should have been easier, the path was right _there_, but Miyuki couldn't lift her leg and ascend the stairs; could only lean against the wall, sliding down until she was an inelegant heap on the ground. _Oh, she should get up._

Eyes blinking dazedly, Miyuki stared at the courtyard until her vision blurred and she had to look away, pressing her face into the wood of the stairs. Her stomach started to churn, sweat beaded across her skin. "Oh," she moaned, "oh-_wah!_"

Arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her up. Miyuki could only flail her arms and stare at the stairs as she was cradled against a rather—_hmm!_—fascinating chest. A hand reached for the back of her knees, then like a newly wed bride, she was carried up the stairs, flight after flight, then down the walkway until—her apartment door.

With a bang, it opened.

It was only after the man had paused in the doorway, then made a beeline toward the pitiful mattress that was her bed, that it dawned upon Miyuki that her door had been _kicked _open. Kicked open—oh, her stomach hurt.

Eyes screwed shut, Miyuki remained silent as she was placed on cool sheets and a fluffy pillow. She sagged into the bed, sighing, and eventually inhaled a long calming breath. Finally, she opened her eyes.

A black blazer, a brown-and-black striped shirt, hair slicked back from a round face. Oh, it was him: Serizawa Tamao. And Miyuki wasn't sure if she had to scream or run, or do both at once. Instead, she turned her face away and burped into her pillow.

The Crow sighed. "You're troublesome."

_What? _Miyuki shifted, and the world was tipping and turning, left to right, right to left continuously. She pressed a hand onto her belly. "No …" Miyuki murmured, then shook her head. _What were they talking about? Oh, yes._ "No. No, no, n-no, I'm not."

"You are," the deep voice responded, and a finger brushed her hair out of her face, gently. "Troublesome." Serizawa was silent for a beat, then added, like an army captain giving his soldiers an order, "Go to sleep."

And she did.

* * *

Oka-san: mother.

Oto-san: father.

* * *

**A/N: **Thank you to everyone for reviewing!


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